


lost it all

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Black Family, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gen, Gen Work, Loss, MWPP Era, Mental Illness, Mother Complex, Neglect, POV First Person, inability to cope, the Blacks - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:44:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1776253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Black family dinner, after 'he' has run away. It's not the way it used to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lost it all

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, okay, I can freely admit this is the most painful one I've written about them yet. I think. It makes me want to go: "oh, hi guys, what, oh, yeah, sure, no problem, take my heart and stab it, go right ahead, it's not like I need it anyway!"
> 
> Fuck's sake, why is this shit so sad? Answer: it's the Blacks. It's _bound_ to be sad and tragic. _Destined_ , really.
> 
> FUCK THIS SHIT WHYYYYY OH MY GOD WHY /SOBS/

_but me i’m a single cell_  
 _on a serpent’s tongue_  
 _there’s a muddy field where a garden was_  
 _and i’m glad you got away_  
 _but i’m still stuck out here_  
 _my clothes are soaking wet_  
 _from your brother’s tears_  
  
‘poison oak’—bright eyes  
  
  
  
 _  
 _December, 1977__  
  
“ _September the first, 1938, is the day of victory. The heir takes back what it his; he arrives at Hogwarts and alters Slytherin itself. The honour, sullied throughout the centuries, is re-established with the Dark Lord’s presence. It is the beginning of a new age, and the revival of the first_.” 

My eyes water and burn, and I quickly squeeze them shut. My body is cold, as is the room I sit in, my room. I inhale deeply, take in the tension this house is cursed with and the excrutiating loneliness that engulfs everyone who steps over the threshold. I shudder. Out of nowhere, a gust of wind comes hurled into my room, pushing the window open and making it to crash into the wall. There’s a sense of thick premonition crawling up my spine, something heavy and dark that curls in my stomach. The light coming from the candelabra beside my desk flicker out. I exhale, and as the air leaves my body, so does the tension. My heart stops aching. It stops beating, too, if only for the fraction of a second. I sit in the darkness, quiet and unmoving, a prey waiting for the serpent to come.  
  
“Regulus Arcturus!”

The voice reaches my ears through the darkness. It’s a female voice, high-pitched, strained with tiredness and bordering on a hysteria she tries to hide desperately, but unsuccessfully. I suppress the urge to heave a sigh. Straightening my back, I sit up, reach for the dusty book in my lap and place it on the heavy, wooden bedside table. I quieten for a moment, observe the rich golden letters _The Dark Lord: A History_ on the otherwise pitch-black cover. It was given to me when I first entered the circle of the Dark Lord, with the words, “That’s what a Death Eater in the early stages must know—here’s how to become an honourable Death Eater. Make us proud, Black.”  
  
I remember the words, and find I cannot help it; I snort and allow the corners of my mouth to widen into a sardonic grin. Far too amusing for my taste. I know more than most of those halfwits.  
  
Of course, being the youngest, I am merely a boy in their eyes. But I am a Black, and they are not stupid. I possess more wit and intelligence than more than half of them, and they know this. So I dismissed it as a mere gesture of misguided frendlieness, in the hope I will improve the might of the Dark Lord’s order. It’s easier to think they didn’t want to fool me, although that was probably their intention. It’s easier to dismiss, because responding to it simply overcomplicates matters. Dismiss, but not forget, so as to be aware for next time.  
  
The Dark Lord himself knows it’s—not exactly a privilege—but he knows it’s… _handy_ to be officially supported by the child of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Polishing his reputation, that is what this is about, and though he does not favour me over others, I do know that he is aware of my value and status.  
  
I touch the book, brush across the leather binding with fore- and middlefinger, a last time. Then I stand up abruptly, take a few steps over to the mirror. I avoid looking at my face, and hastily adjust my collar to make myself presentable for Walburga.  
  
\---  
  
Dinner is quiet.  
  
Has always been quiet, since that day in November, two years ago. Walburga and Orion both sit at the ends of the table; I sit in between. Usually when looking up, I would be able to see his face, directly opposite of mine. Mostly he was poking moodily at his food, pretending to eat, but never wholly forgetting the manners and instructions he was taught (as well as I) since before he had learned to walk. When adressed, he raised his head in one slow movement, expression distant and blank. He said, “Yes, Mother,” “Certainly I will, Father,” and smiled a fake smile. His parents never noticed. I suppose it was better this way; he’d maybe run away far earlier, had they done so.

Not that I care.  
  
The fork in my left hand trembles as I look up and meet nothing other than the blank, dark wall behind the empty place at the table. Walburga insisted on removing the chair he used to sit in. She burnt it, hardly two days after. She was silent after he left; those two days after, I couldn’t even hear her breathe. Then, with a terrible scream, she removed his name from the Black family tree. Orion merely watched, a silent shadow with nothing but blankness in his eyes.  
  
“Ah, Regulus, dear.” Walburga’s mouth opens, and her voice echoes in the room, monotone and automatic. I swallow the caviar, put aside the fork neatly, reach for the napkin and cleanse my mouth. I turn my head to the right, where Walburga sits and watches me. Instantly there is a smile on my face. It’s easy to smile. If I remember correctly, it’s the third rule he and I were taught (after ‘never question your parents’ and ‘you must be proud of you heritage’)—to smile in difficult situations, to smile serenely when attending social events that are of importance. The smile can be faked, but you must never show it is. You can think what you want, you can look at their faces while thinking what poor sods they are, but you must smile.

Never stop smiling.  
  
“Yes?” My voice sounds perfectly acceptable, even though my hands still shake (I hide them in my lap, folded). “Mother,” I add, after a moment of consideration. I have to pinch the skin between thumb and forefinger from my left hand with my fingernails. The pain makes it easier to pretend saying ‘Mother’ is perfectly normal. Makes it easy to concentrate on what’s important. Makes me forget the twisting of my stomach.

Makes me smile.  
  
“Regulus, dear,” her mouth says again while her blue eyes look at my forehead. She does it discreetly, but I still notice. I wish I wouldn’t, but I can understand her; I myself am looking at the bridge of her nose, rather than her eyes. I should have chosen the forehead instead.

(He and I were also taught that if you wanted to avoid the eyes of your opponent, in fear of not being able to hold back whatever it is you would want [or need] to hold back, you should rather look somewhere in the upper part of his or her face. Staring down would indicate weakness, would show submission. Would give them permission to dominate. Blacks do not do this.

Even though he and I never were allowed to dominate openly, due to our ages, we were trained to never forget. Instead, however, they taught another point far more crucial; the art of implicit domination. Your hand should be placed firmly on the shoulder of your enemy, squeezing only gently, but enough to make your point clear. Your eyes should stay focused on theirs, never wavering, never yielding. And the words, oh, the power of words. The matter of greatest importance. If nothing helps, pick out a few of well-chosen words and adjust your voice, and you’ve caught them instantly.)  
  
“Yes, Mother?”  
  
“Regulus,” she mouthes now, and her voice is hoarse. The hysteria is gone, the high tone pitched low, lower, until it’s eventually gone as well. What remains is nothing, nothing more but misery and pain. I pinch my skin harder. “Regulus.”  
  
It’s hard to cope, but I manage. There is no other option. I breathe in, sharply, through my nostrils, and Orion must have noticed. He turns his head slightly to my direction, tries to capture my eyes, tries to see me. What he sees is the back of my head. Rule number five, ‘never stop a conversation unless you are told.’ I have not been told. Not yet. So I keep my eyes on her, firmly, on the bridge of her nose. I notice a freckle I haven’t seen before.  
  
“Regulus…” Her voice is a whisper now, nearly a whimper, and I keep on smiling. It hurts. She turns her head just so, not allowing her emotions to take over, and yet I can see her eyes darting over to her right, to the empty place. She opens her mouth once more, as if she wants to say something, but she is lost for words. I see desperation in the lines on her forehead as it wrinkles. Her mouth forms a word I cannot hear, a word she herself doesn’t know anymore; a name, a name long forgotten and thrown away into a dark corner, never to appear again. The lines that lead from the sides of her nose down to her mouth must have been laugh lines once. Now they are jaded. They are too deep, cut into her skin and make her ugly. A long time ago, she was a pretty woman, terrible in her beauty. Her former self reminds me of Bellatrix.  
  
“Sirius.”  
  
(I try to hate him. I tried to hate him. I try, tried, try… tried.

I never could do it.)  
  
My smile fades now, and I’m sure the shock I feel within is reflected on my face. Her voice is broken, and her own face is the colour of a corpse’s stark white, but she has found the name she’s been looked for. I prepare myself for the storm that I am sure is about to come. I have forgotten that my hands shake, but there’s no sense in hiding them now. My whole body is shaking.  
  
“Regulus,” a sharp voice says loudly, and my head whips around to see Orion standing beside me. I didn’t notice his hand on my shoulder before. “Regulus, you may leave. Go up to your room.”  
  
And he’s dangerous now. Orion might be an old man, all wrinkles and grey hair, but he knows how to yield power. He knows how to get it, how to use it. His steely eyes look at me, directly into my own, and in them I can read that I am allowed to leave. I nod slowly, stand up and give a last bow into the direction of Walburga, then turn around to leave. My steps are controlled and calm, my face a mask once more. As I walk around the corner, I can hear Orion’s steps, and Walburga choking. He’ll probably try calming her down. He’ll try to avoid the unavoidable.  
  
They cannot see me anymore.  
  
I break into a run, _thump thump thump_. My steps are heavy on the floor, and the house wants to taunt me; a moment later, a terrible scream gurgles out of Walburga’s throat and the walls of the house throw the scream back at me, chasing me, haunting me up the stairs. I slip on a step and fall down hard. My heart throws itself against my ribcage, as if wanting to escape. My breathing is ragged, and something bleeds on my right hand, but I do not care.  
  
In the darkness I can imagine Walburga’s face, contorted in utmost hatred. The words she spits out consist repeatedly of “Traitor, no son of mine, how dare he.” She screams and shrieks and throws the china plates on the floor, breaks them, breaking the Black family crest on them in the attempt not to break herself. She goes mad only to avoid whispering, “Please come back.”

When I finally reach my room, I close the window quickly and crawl into bed, hiding underneath the blankets. The screams don’t stop. They are harsh and hoarse. I wonder why Orion never screams. Maybe he is afraid of losing control as well, of succumbing to the temptation, too. Blacks are not sick. Blacks are perfection, sensible and mighty. They don’t fall for madness; madness is a thing too foolish for us.  
  
She still screams.  
  
... They say it is paranoia.

They say it is schizophrenia.

They say she is mad, they say she is twisted.  
  
“Wicked, little Walburga, lost your son, did you? Spineless mad bitch... you are no mother. Old hag, you are no Black. You are nothing, nothing, and no one loves you.”

There are nights I can sense her sitting in front of his door, whispering those things over and over again, like a mantra. And it frightens me, because she sings it to herself the way she sang lullabies to him and me, when we were still very small children. I wish I didn’t remember that she used to do that, but I do.

I assume that it is her prayer now, her prayer with which she falls asleep on the hallway floor, dreaming of him being beside her without hatred and disgust in his eyes.

But Blacks don’t cry. Blacks must hold up the tradition. Blacks must never break down. Blacks are what they must be. Blacks never say, “Forgive me.” Blacks never plead, “Come back.” Blacks never utter the things that weigh on their hearts so heavily it almost crushes them.

Blacks are not what others are.  
  
The Blacks mean elitism.  
  
They say it is paranoia, they say it is schizophrenia.

They say she is mad, they say she is twisted.

Maybe she is.  
  
I fall asleep. Walburga is there, in my dream. She opens her mouth and says, “Sirius,” and reaches for me. She smiles when she feels something solid and pulls me into an embrace. “Sirius,” she whispers, and I cannot move. She says it again, “Sirius.” She breathes a kiss on my forehead and with it, a broken prayer of “Sirius,” and when she looks down at me and not Sirius, her mouth wants to form my name, but she has forgotten it.  
  
She stops smiling and lets go.


End file.
